A faithful wife bent low in prayer
O'er suffering one in wild despair,
While tender hands relief prepare
Upon th' uncovered floor
Of him who cursed her life by drink
And caused her trusting heart to sink
Upon Despair's cold, cheerless brink,
Is character I much adore.
Nature has printed the largest book
That eye has ever seen,
And filled it with colored pictures fair,
In white and gray and green.
She offers it free to all mankind—
Noble, generous deed—
But few there are in its pages rare,
Have ever learned to read.
SOME CHARACTERS I CAN'T ADMIRE.
The seeming saint with long drawn face,
Who thinks that he has so much grace
He should be throned on highest place
To which saints may aspire,
And yet, when dealing with a man,
Will use some vicious, subtle plan
By which a vantage he may gain,
Is character I can't admire.
The zealot who thinks God has given
A delegated power from heaven
To him, to see that men are driven
To escape a burning fire,
Yet draws no souls by filial love,
But deems the world can never move
By holy influence from above,
Is character I can't admire.
The man whose prayer is long and loud,
Whose knee is bent, whose head is bowed—
With worldly goods richly endowed
With all man can desire,
Yet sees a worthy brother fall,
Without responding to his call
For aid to soothe starvation's gall,
Is character I can't admire.
The teacher who devoid of heart,
Unskilled in pedagogic art,
With looks and acts severely tart
Would loathesome tasks require,
Of pupils dulled by daily grind,
Or stirred by words unjust, unkind,
Which leave a canker in the mind,
Is character I can't admire.
The mother who aspires to be
A beacon light of charity,
Regardless of the nursery
Whereof she seems to tire,
Who thinks her husband needs no care,
But drives him wildly toward despair
By meagre love, and frigid fare,
Is character I can't admire.